Into the desert

Promise me you won't hurt yourself. 

Because you are more precious to me that anything I can imagine.  Because it was you, my sweet one, that taught me to grow out of myself and become something new.  It was you, in those early days, who stridently, gently, insistently invited me to let go of myself and consider, for the first time, someone else.  It was a painful transition, from me to you.  But oh, how rich and full of joy this journey has been so far.

Know that I love you unconditionally.  Know that I pray for you every day.  Know that in Christ, you are beautiful. 

Promise me.

You aren't who you say you are

Or even who you think you are.  You are the you you know, but there is so much more.

There have been a few times in my life when I have caught a glimpse of myself through God's eyes.  Mostly it has been after making my confession to a priest.  There would be a moment, an afternoon, maybe even a day, when I would see past the constructs, the sin, the confusion, the complexity and see myself as simple, beautiful, joy. My heart as wide as the earth.  In those moments, I saw myself as I imagine God sees me.  And I saw you that way, too. 

And I am telling you.  You are not who you say you are.  Or who you think you are.  You are the you you know.  But friend, there is so much more.

Drawing closer

I'll admit that when I am unjustly accused, my human nature wants to defend myself.  I want to stand up in righteous indignation.

But in my quieter moments, I think of the trials of our Lord.  How, when he was accused, he never defended himself, saying only "you say so" to his accusers.

I pray that today, I can be relieved of my indignation and allow this small crucifixion to draw me nearer to him.  Lent is an especially good time to examine my own sins and try to forgive those who sin against me, as I have been forgiven by God.

Getting yelled at

Today I realized that in the last few weeks I have been yelled at by 3 different people.  Like, actual yelling.  Raised voices.  Red in the face.  Angry yelling.

And in all three cases my first reaction was to try and suppress the weird nervous giggle that inevitably bubbles to the surface when I am extremely uncomfortable.  In all cases, I more or less succeeded in not laughing in the face of the person yelling.

I wonder what is going on with this rash of yelling?  There doesn't really seem to be a pattern to what is triggering it. Three different circumstances, with three different people.  The only thing that is common to each is that while I said or did something to trigger the anger, it was not about me at all.  In all three cases, I touched some sort of nerve in them that threw the switch.  I was basically caught in the crossfire of emotions that had very little to do with me.  It was their own stuff.

In each case, my reaction was to walk away, figuratively if not literally.  I just stopped engaging.  I suppose in the past, I would have fought back, but these days, I pretty much offer the other cheek.  And like Christ's example, it isn't about rolling over and letting people walk over me, it is about understanding that by refusing to engage, I maintain a hold on my own power.  I don't hand it over to the person doing the ranting.  My power comes not from my tongue or my adrenaline, but from Him who is all powerful.

Where do we meet?

I have only been a 'minority' a few times in my life.  When I was 18 I went to Hawaii for several months and experienced being a minority for the first time.  I was living in a neighborhood with very few white people.  Every day I took the bus into Honolulu and heard Samoan kids calling each other Haoli as an insult.  It is the word for 'white'.

In Vietnam I stood out like a sore thumb.  I towered over most people, with my crazy red hair and well-padded physique. Little old ladies would giggle and poke me to see what my skin felt like.  

In Mali, you can't miss me.  My skin is not just white... it is white.  I slather myself in sunblock to stay pale in the hot West African sun.  I wear hats and shades and cower from the bright light.  In a crowd, my clothes and skin and hair mark me as utterly different.  I met a few kids with albinism and wondered how they manage to keep from burning to a crisp.  Once we met a little baby who took one look at us and started howling from fear.  He was inconsolable until his mom took him to another room to calm him down.  He had never seen a white person up close.

A few times as a minority is not the same as a lifetime.  And I don't carry baggage from generations of oppression.  For me, being a minority once in awhile is a reality check, but it isn't my normal reality.

So, really, I am not sure what to make of an African language forum on the internet that wouldn't let me join because I wrote 'caucasian' in the application questionnaire.  It is a forum for people of Afrikan descent.  I wanted to join because they offer West African language information.  I want to learn Bambara because, although I can get by in French, it is the language of the colonial powers.  The Bamanakan word for French, in fact, translates as 'White persons language'. I have become convinced that if I want to know the Malian people, I need to learn their language.

When I got the rejection email today, I knew right away that the forum owner was not, despite his name, an African.  I knew he had to be American.  I have yet to meet an African  who decides things based on race.  That seems to be an American phenomenon.  But maybe this isn't just about race.  Or, maybe it is, but in a less obvious way.  This is a club for people with a shared ancestry and a shared experience.  An experience that I truly can never understand. 

So, I won't be taking classes on the Afrikan Language forum.  Instead, I will be learning Bambara from my friends in Mali.  And will pray for healing for all of us.

Things to pack when traveling to Mali

I am a fastidious packer.  In fact, my husband makes relentless fun of me when we are getting ready to travel.  He is a 'throw a few pairs of shorts in a backpack'' kind of guy, while I am of the school that makes multiple lists, organizes with a staging area for weeks before the big trip and spends countless hours thinking about what I am likely to need.

Having said that, the following is a snapshot of what my suitcases are going to contain for a 17 day trip to Mali, West Africa.

• Bug repellent.  I use 3M Ultrathon, a long acting, highly effective repellent reccomended by the travel clinic.  I bring one tube per week and bring it in my carry on bag so it won't get lost in transit.  
• Sunscreen.  I am a ginger.  Need I say more?
• Hat.  Ditto.
• Travel plug adapters.  Turns out most modern electronic gear does not need an actual converter, but does need an adapter to plug in to Mali outlets, which are 220v European style.
• Clothes, of course.
• Electronics.  An embarrassing array, really:
• Ipad
• Still camera
• Video camera
• Good quality digital recorder.  (I am going to Mali, after all, home of the best musicians in the world.)
• Bluetooth speakers (See above) 
• NIMH battery chargers
• Kindle
• plugs, outlets, av cables, aux cables, etc. for all of the above
• A small throw for chilly nights
• A well-stocked medical kit which includes:
• Antibacterial cream
• bandaids
• gauze pads
• Zpac antibiotics
• Malarone anti-malarial meds
• Cipro - for diarrhea
• Ambien- for sleeping on the plane and jet lag
• homeopathic jet lag medicine
• Airborne
• Emergen-C
• tweezers
• small scissors
• Benadryl

• A tripod
• A sketchpad and some pencils
• Deck of cards
• My pillow
• Ear plugs
• Chap stick
• 2 pairs of sandals- one dressy and one casual
• flip flops for the bathroom
• And speaking of bathrooms- wetwipes and mini kleenex packs for the public bathrooms in Mali.  

I also pack my positive attitude and prayer.  Travel is an adventure that is so much better when you are in a good place spiritually and emotionally.

There is neither Jew nor Gentile, neither slave nor free, nor is there male and female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus. Galatians 3:28

Facebook Wisdom

A few of my facebook friends posted this:

Don't like gay marriages? Don't get one.. Don't like cigarettes? Don't smoke them.. Don't like abortions? Don't get one.. Don't like sex? Don't have it.. Don't like drugs? Don't do them.. Don't like porn? Don't watch it.. Don't like alcohol? Don't drink it.. Don't like guns? Don't buy one.. Don't like your rights taken away??? Don't take away someone else's. {re-post if you agree}

Needless to say, I didn't repost.

It is so hard for people to understand that personal rights can't trump the health and well being of the society as a whole. My right to kill you is trumped by your right to live.

Illegal drugs, for example. A personal right? Really? Tell that to the 40,000 Mexicans who have been murdered recently in the drug wars. Maybe the Mexicans would disagree that this is a victimless crime.

And abortion is a personal right? Tell that to the 45 million people who have died in the world this year.

Even something like smoking cigarettes has massive impact on the society as a whole. We ALL pay for health insurance. We all have to bear the burden of the people who are killing themselves with cigarettes. We are all impacted if we go into a public space where people are smoking. So, not only am I a fan of banning smoking in public places, but I also favor taxing cigarettes. I KNOW it has been a factor in some of my friends choosing to quit. And the tax money can go towards supplementing the health care costs that weigh all of us down.

Yup. No. I won't be reposting this one.

Resting in the Lord

Is it possible that the act of trusting another person can also lead to a deeper trust in the Lord?

I have learned to trust in the act of confession. I trust the sacramental nature of it. I trust the person sitting on the other side of the screen. In my case, my confessor is always someone I know, so it is an even greater trust knowing that I will see him again outside of the box.

But God has led me to a place of courage.

And in that place of courage, Love resides. God is there and his love surrounds and fills us and invites us to rest in him.

Which I do from time to time.

But never more than after a challenging confession.

The art of medium well

Today a friend was talking about her 50th birthday.

It makes me wonder if I am ever going to do anything significant, she said.

I believe that for me, the answer is no.

I used to think that I was going to be exceptional. At what, I was less sure, but I really thought that someday, somehow, I would be.... known for something.

I know I have posted before about my exceptional parents. I grew up thinking that everyone had parents that were well known. I grew up thinking that it was expected that you would accomplish at least one extraordinary thing in your life.

Some of my parent's exceptional friends seem to have had exceptional offspring. One is releasing his 4th or 5 album this month. Another just won a genius grant from the MacArthur folks. (He is, incidentally, the second one of his exceptionally talented family to snag that particular distinction.)

And since I have posted about this before, it might seem like I am obsessing, but since my friend brought it up, I decided that I really need to set the record straight.

I am not exceptional, except perhaps in my fondness for junk television and fascination with historical travelogues of West Africa. (I love you, Mungo Park. Hope to meet you on the other side some day.)

I think that it was the King himself who finally lifted the burden of exceptional from me. Jesus pointed to the beauty of ordinariness. He calls us to be extraordinary in the most ordinary of ways. He asks us to be Holy, as God is Holy, even as he tells us that no one is Good except God.

We cannot be extraordinary Christians. We are always going to be mediocre, stumbling in our faith, prone to sin and selfishness, spiritual goofballs that have to learn the same lessons over and over again.

But truly I tell you, I would rather be a striving to be better Christian than an exceptional anything else.

Sunday

And after a weekend of gorgeous weather, lovely drumming, church, great food, even a beer or two, I am trying to get back into work brain.

It is a tough transition sometimes.

So, off to bed I go to read some psalms and say some prayers and get ready for the week ahead.

Does this mean I am officially a zealot?

Almost every day, one of my facebook friends posts a picture of a dog that is destined to be put to sleep in a shelter, somewhere in the country.

I am never sure what we are supposed to do about it, but every time I see it, I think of the thousands of tiny, unwanted babies who die every day at the hands of a doctor in a clinic.

It's not that I don't love dogs. It's that I think our society is just, well, a little confused in it's priorities.

Holy Week was just one big LOVE fest this year

I am still feeling like I spent a weekend away with the love of my life.

My Sweet Friend has drawn me close in the last week. I feel very blessed indeed.

And joyful that the Easter season lasts until Pentecost...

The Paschal Homily of St. John Chrysostom

The Paschal Homily of St. John Chrysostom is read at the end of Orthros (Matins) at Pascha, the feast of the Resurrection of Jesus Christ, universally throughout the Orthodox Church. It was composed sometime during his ministry in the late 4th or early 5th century.

"If anyone is devout and a lover of God, let him enjoy this beautiful and radiant festival. If anyone is a wise servant, let him, rejoicing, enter into the joy of his Lord. If anyone has wearied himself in fasting, let him now receive his recompense."

If anyone has labored from the first hour, let him today receive his just reward. If anyone has come at the third hour, with thanksgiving let him keep the feast. If anyone has arrived at the sixth hour, let him have no misgivings; for he shall suffer no loss. If anyone has delayed until the ninth hour, let him draw near without hesitation. If anyone has arrived even at the eleventh hour, let him not fear on account of his delay. For the Master is gracious and receives the last, even as the first; he gives rest to him that comes at the eleventh hour, just as to him who has labored from the first. He has mercy upon the last and cares for the first; to the one he gives, and to the other he is gracious. He both honors the work and praises the intention.

Enter all of you, therefore, into the joy of our Lord, and, whether first or last, receive your reward. O rich and poor, one with another, dance for joy! O you ascetics and you negligent, celebrate the day! You that have fasted and you that have disregarded the fast, rejoice today! The table is rich-laden; feast royally, all of you! The calf is fatted; let no one go forth hungry!

Let all partake of the feast of faith. Let all receive the riches of goodness.
Let no one lament his poverty, for the universal kingdom has been revealed.
Let no one mourn his transgressions, for pardon has dawned from the grave.
Let no one fear death, for the Saviour's death has set us free.

Thank you to Peter+ for sending this to me.

News from the Vigil

I have good news.

Yesterday during the three hour meditation at church, I was reflecting on Jesus crying out to God from the cross.

My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?

Sadder words have never been spoken. A more anguished cry I could not imagine. And for years now I have tried to understand how it could be that Jesus would be forsaken.

Good Friday has been for me, in the past, a day to meditate on my sins. I bring them to the foot of the cross and spend three mostly agonizing hours contemplating that the weight of them is partly what brought Jesus to hang on the tree. In Triduums past, the heaviness of my sin and the depth of my grief over His death has lingered long past the Easter Sunday service. It was like Lent sprawled beyond it's 40 days and seeped into the Easter season. One year it was nearly Pentecost before I got to feel the resurrection in my heart.

So it was strange, then, in the midst of a Good Friday service, to suddenly feel a sense of overwhelming joy. And stranger still that the joy would come from the words of Christ's agony on the cross.

My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?

The joy was this: Jesus took upon himself the sins, hurts, anger and grief of the world. He carried these things with him onto the cross so that we could be forgiven, redeemed, set free. He became fully human in order to save us humans. And part of being human is to be forsaken by God. It is an integral part of the human experience. King David felt it. Job certainly felt it. Scripture is full of stories of men and women suffering because they feel forsaken by God. I can't explain why. I just know that there have been moments in my own life, even as a Christian, when I felt distant from God. Like he had slid far away, to a place where I could not follow.

A few years before becoming a Christian, a friend of mine died of a heroin overdose. I went to his funeral at a Catholic church in Providence. I was into the new age stuff at that point, and was having a hard time reconciling my grief for my friend's death with the sense that I was somehow supposed to feel peace knowing that he was in a better place. Imagine my relief, then, when the priest spoke of Jesus at Lazarus' graveside, weeping with Mary and Martha. Even Jesus, who understood that Lazarus was going to rise from the dead, was weeping in grief. My sweet Friend, whom I did not yet know, came to me in that darkened church and gave me permission to feel as grief stricken as I did.... no apologies, no trying to pretend I was too enlightened for grief. He sat with me and wept at the grave of my friend. Because Jesus was fully human, too... and cried right along with me.

Last year when the flood destroyed Nguyen's business, I spent several weeks feeling like I was supposed to be handling the whole thing better. I am a Christian, after all. I know that God has a plan and that he can redeem even the most difficult situations. So why was I in such pain, such anger, such helplessness? I cried so much... all the while having to listen to some of my Christian friends tell me that God had a plan for all of it. Sometimes it didn't feel that way. And knowing it didn't seem to help. In fact, sometimes their words felt like hollow shortcuts through my fear and pain... a way for them to avoid the unpleasant reality of my suffering.

Yesterday in the church, as we contemplated the last words of Christ before his death, I suddenly understood that even our Lord felt forsaken while he suffered.

Let me repeat that.

Our Lord felt forsaken on the cross.

And because he was fully human and came to earth to redeem us, his experience means something. It means that no matter how separated from God we might feel in our moments of grief or loss or anger, we are not alone in that. Jesus is there with us. He is experiencing it right along with us.

Which means we are never actually alone.

So maybe next time something happens that causes me grief, I will rest a little easier knowing that Jesus is truly there with me.

My sweet, sweet Friend. Even in your agony, you draw close to us. Even in your pain, you give so generously. Thank you my Beloved. In your suffering, Lord, ours is redeemed. I praise you and worship and love you. Lord, you have taken on the sins of the world. Have mercy on us.

Holy Holy Holy

This is my 7th Lent as a Christian, and every year I am given a gift from our Lord. And every year so far it has been some kind of painful. It isn't easy spending time in the desert. No. Not at all.

I was having lunch with my spiritual director this week and remembered something from my days as a student of tarot. In the ancient Jewish tradition of the Tree of Life, there is one branch that has both Mercy and Severity.

For me, Lent is both of those things. Severe and Merciful.

Holy Week is fast approaching and this year I have chosen to not organize the overnight vigil at Grace Church. Every year since I have been there I have accepted the task of the vigil... writing a newsletter article explaining what it is, putting out sign up sheets, chasing people to try and fill up the time slots until morning. And then, when there were vast spaces of time left unfilled, I would sit in the church, sometimes alone, sometimes with someone else, often for hours at a time. One year I was there for 5 hours. Last year, the day after the flood destroyed our shop, I was there from midnight until 3am. Then Nguyen relieved me and sat for the rest of the night.

I am not complaining. I love the vigil. It has been, for me, a highpoint of my year. Every year I have something to bring to the altar. A death. A near death. A miraculous recovery. A loss. I lay them at our Lord's feet and ask his forgiveness. I lay myself at his feet at the base of the big stone altar and spend hours in his presence. One year the priest left the chalice uncovered and the heady fragrance of the sacramental wine wafted through the tiny chapel. I was sitting on the cold stone floor with the smell of gardens and burning wax and wine. It was incredible.

But this year, I am not up for organizing much of anything. This year I will be Mary and find a place to just sit at his feet and adore him for awhile. I will let someone else be Martha this year.

Mercy.

Severity.

Chesed

Geborah

I wonder if Nehemiah ever felt like this

Lord, I am tired.

I look upon the hills. From where does my help come?
My help comes from the Lord, creator of Heaven and earth.

To my pro choice friends

I know you are compassionate. I know that you believe that a woman has a right to control her body. I know your hearts are in the right place. I truly believe that about you.

But from the moment of conception, from the moment a sperm cell and an egg unite, there is a shift in the woman's body. The union of those two cells is a moment when a separate life is born. The woman's body recognizes this. That moment of union sets in motion a series of events that the woman cannot control. Her uterus begins to build a home for the new life. Her breasts grow tender. Her body creates hormones to sustain the life growing inside her. Physiologically, she is no longer a single organism. She now holds within her a separate and distinct life. And her body knows, even from the first day, from the moment of union. Her body knows. She is a mother.

And whether you believe in God or not, whether you believe that life is sacred or not, you have to recognize that a woman who is with child is a mother, even if that child is unwanted. Even if her life is chaos. Even if a kid is the last thing in the world she can imagine for herself. It has already happened, from the moment the sperm and egg became a separate living being, she is a mother.

And whether you believe in God or not, whether you believe that life is sacred, or not, you have to recognize that no matter how tiny that new life is, abortion extinguishes it. There is a death in that clinic. Two deaths, really. The death of the embryo or fetus and the death of the motherhood inside that woman.

Women don't forget. They may console themselves that it was the logical decision... the right choice in a sea of terrible options. They may deny the impact and put on the blinders. They may bury their pain in anger or self destruction or numb it with drugs or men. They may even manage to convince their minds and hearts that they are fine. But their bodies know that for those few weeks, they were a mother. They were creating life. They were nurturing life. And then they weren't.

Years go by. We have women who call our center after decades, ready to face the fact that they lost more than a baby that day. One client had her abortion 45 years ago and has come to us for healing.

Our culture has said that abortion is a compassionate option. I don't believe that for a moment. It is an expedient option. An inexpensive option. A fast option. But not compassionate. Never compassionate. Death is not a compassionate choice. We, as a society, can do better, can't we? How would truly compassionate people cope with a crisis like this?

A long time ago, a friend of mine found herself pregnant by a man who was no good for her. Her friends and family gathered around her, angry and afraid. We talked her into going to the clinic because we believed that it was best for her. We wanted what was best. I drove her, on a cold, gray afternoon. Waited in the reception area while she was irrevocably altered. Her fetus and her motherhood taken from her. I thought I was being a good friend. I think now that I had simply accepted the lie that this wouldn't cause her harm. That this was a good choice. A safe and legal option that would make the whole problem just go away.

But now I know better. From the moment those two cells unite, from the moment the switch is thrown, there is no going back.

We can do better.

We, as a people, as a society, can have a truly compassionate response to an unwanted pregnancy. We can salvage the mother, nurture her, care for her as one of our own. We can love her and support her. We can welcome the life inside her and make a place for the child in our hearts, our society, our culture. We can save the life of the baby and the motherhood of the woman.

We can do better.

We must do better.

" Any country that accepts abortion is not teaching its people to love, but to use any violence to get what they want." Mother Theresa

My dirty little secret

Not too many people know this about me, but it is true. When I play my drum during a performance, I am almost paralyzed with stage fright. My heart races. My breathing gets shallow. I begin to feel like the muscles in my arms are going to stop working at any moment. Fear sends the sweat trickling down my back and my stomach feels like it is going to turn inside out. It borders on a full blown panic attack.

For anyone that knows me, this is probably a bit of a shock. I am one of the least shy people I know. I can talk to anyone. I can stand up in front of 1000 people with no written notes and speak as though I am talking to a close friend. Public speaking is a normal part of my job and I do it fearlessly.

But put a drum in my hands and suddenly I am, well, terrified.

It has been so bad at times that I have wondered whether I should even try to play in public. Maybe I should just give it up and stick to the drum circles and classes and forget about performing altogether.

And yet, I dream of the day that I can play without fear and just engage with my fellow musicians and feel the joy that I know is inside me somewhere.

Last night, a tiny glimpse. I got the chance to play dundun for a dance class in Providence. My teacher and another drummer were playing djembes and I was on the bass drums. At first I was playing a part I didn't know and was very grateful that Laso was keeping a steady rhythm for me. But about a third of the way through the class, the dance teacher, Seydou, asked me to play the rhythm for Dansa and I was off and running.

Playing for a solid hour, even at a moderate pace, is hard work. I realized that my muscles were starting to cramp a little, so I had to consciously shift my body so I could relax more. I began to notice where I was tight. My feet, oddly enough, were cramping. My back was slouching. My hands were gripping my sticks too tight. When you are playing at a good clip for a long time, it is easy to recognize bad technique.

Once I started playing I began to feel less and less and nervous and just started to enjoy myself. I loved watching the dancers. I loved watching how Seydou moved when he was showing them the steps. One of the students was really wonderful, too. She economized her movements and wasted no energy. Just like African dancers do. Just as I was trying to do with my drums.

At the end of the class, as I stretched my arms and back muscles back out, I realized that I was one step closer to being able to play without fear. I felt joy. And can't wait to play again.

I left

I was looking at an old friend's photos on facebook today. I realized that there was a whole life that I left behind. A whole group of friends who continued on without me. Lives. Deaths. Kids. Houses. Coffee and beer and parties and running into each other at grocery stores.

And for a moment, I wondered what it would be like if I hadn't moved away. I wondered if I would have been in those pictures.

And for a moment, I felt homesick for a life that never really existed.

Day one

We first saw our apartment at 3am after having traveled for nearly a day from RI to Mali. The cab brought us through the dark streets of the city, past countless dusty stalls that during the day sold everything from charcoal braziers to roasted lamb to replacement motorbike tires.

The big highway from the airport was new and very fancy, with lit up LED lights embedded in the pavement, giving that part of the city the look of a giant landing strip.

But once we got out of the downtown and headed up the hills towards our neighborhood, the bright lights faded and the streets got dark. Clouds of red dust hung in the air. A stray dog darted across the road. Now and then we would notice someone sleeping next to their little storefront.

Our apartment had stark fluorescent lighting and pink walls. The only furniture in the bedrooms was a 2 inch foam mattress and mosquito netting. It was spare and quiet. For a little while we sat in lawn chairs around a low table and decompressed before heading off to bed.

Later that morning Sidy woke us up so we could go to a rehearsal of his group. We trekked back through the city and across one of the bridges that spans the Niger River. There was a big traffic jam on the bridge and we didn't understand what the hold up was until later, when we discovered that a hippo was lazing about in the water below. Such a sight is rare enough in the city that traffic came to a dead stop, right there on the bridge, so people could watch.

Red Guitar

I brought it in my big duffel bag, wrapped in clothes, hoping that the thin nylon guitar bag would somehow protect it's neck from snapping.

By the time we got to Mali, the guitar was no worse for wear. It was already old and a little beat up when we started, missing a string and out of tune.

It was Sidy's guitar. He wanted me to bring it to Mali for him so he could leave it with friends. It joined the piles of other things that inevitably make the crossing. A used PS2 game console with a FIFA soccer game. An old video camera. Some handbags and shoes. Jewelry. All of it intended as gifts.

The guitar, though, was awkward and big and the guy at the ticket counter at Air Maroc told me that if I checked it in it's soft case, it would surely get damaged. So we packed it into the big duffel bag, wrapped in clothes, and hoped for the best.

Here's what I didn't anticipate. It never occured to me that we would grow to love this guitar. That we would wait for days for a new set of strings, fashion a pick out of an old bank card, invent songs commemorating our adventures. We had no idea how much we would wish for an amp... even attempting to make one out of some spare wires and an old TV. I didn't realize that Amery would quietly play it while we had conversations late into the night... or that he would teach Noah some things on it. If I had known all those things, I would have brought a new set a strings for it... and maybe even Noah's tiny amp.

Next time we know.

Hospital in Koulikoro

The last week has been a blur, but every now and then a fragment of an experience drifts to the surface of my consciousness. I relish these little gifts. They are, to steal a phrase from Hildegard of Bingen, like feathers on the breath of God.

A friend of Sidy's was in the hospital and when we were in Koulikoro we stopped by to say hello. We pulled our green bus over to the side of the road and entered through a rusty gate. We walked into the main building and someone pointed us towards the back. The building was concrete that was painted a bright shade of yellow. Over the years, the color had faded and the dust from the Sahel, which coats everything during dry season, had muted the yellow even more.

We took a wrong turn at the back of the building and wound up in an abandoned part of the property. Then we retraced our steps to a sort of open courtyard. The hospital wing was built around it, with all the rooms facing into the garden. There was a low wall of pierced concrete forms that separated a covered walkway from the garden itself. We circumnavigated the square garden and found Sidy's friend sitting on a lawn chair in the walkway outside his room. The rest of his family were sitting on a low bench against the half wall. They were making him tea.

They invited us to sit. We were concerned that there were so many of us, but Sidy's friend seemed in good spirits and happy to see us. A young child in his mother's arms became alarmed by Noah's white skin and started to cry. His hysteria mounted, despite our smiles and reassurances, until finally his mother had to take him into the room and out of sight of us.

I remember the smell. Mali tea, the earth from the garden, and a slight antiseptic smell from the cleaning solution.

A nurse came to check on the patient. She wore a well worn pink apron and a pink nurses cap over her Malian clothing. She smiled because he seemed to be doing well.

Once I read an essay by Junichiro Tanizaki about hospitals in Japan. Instead of bright white porcelain and steel, they are dark wood and tatami mats. They are places of warmth and rest and recovery. Places which feel at home for the average patient.

The hospital in Koulikoro was like that, too. A little shabby and worn. The garden slightly overgrown and tangled. The corridors a little worse for wear. But welcoming to the family. A place where you can rest in the shade of the covered walk on a warm day and let your body heal.

Re-entry

Two days back from Mali and my heart, head and body ache a little.

God brain

A year or so ago, a brain study found that people who believe in God or have religious experiences have a different brain structure than those who don't. You can read a summary of the research here.

I find this kind of fascinating... especially given that my dad and I are on completely different ends of the spectrum as it relates to God. My father is an atheist and I am a washed by the blood of the lamb born again Christian.

But does the fact that there seems to be a physical difference between believers and non-believers actually have any bearing in whether God is real... or whether he calls us all, equally, to be in relationship with him?

I imagine the non-believing folks with non-believing brains would like to say that some anomaly in my brain is the source of my fantasy that God exists. I, of course, think it is just the opposite. For me, a person with the non-believing mind is a little like someone who is color blind. Their physiology prevents them from seeing the color red. But their inability to see it doesn't mean that red doesn't exist.

A person born blind can't see the world at all... but it doesn't mean that the beauty of the world is the figment of the imagination of those of us who are sighted.

The article about the brain physiology went on to say that the God believer brains had more real estate in the compassion and social centers. I wonder if people are born with that extra brain power, or if the belief in God somehow rewires us to be more compassionate.

The study didn't address cause and effect. It didn't research the brains of converts, before and after. To me, that would be fascinating... to see if our physiology actually changes when we become believers.

The Catholic in me....

When I was in high school in Providence, we always joked about Saki's pizza on Weybossett Street: It's the Italian restaurant with the Japanese name run by Greeks.

My religious landscape is a little like that: She's the charismatic catholic at heart who goes to a low Episcopal Church and works in an Evangelical ministry.

And maybe I am not actually a Catholic at heart. But Catholicism definitely informs how I engage with the church and the world. I love liturgy, believe that the sacraments confer God's grace, am driven by the Holy Spirit and love (LOVE) scripture. A spiritual mutt if ever there was one.

So, how does this all look on the ground? Well, for one thing, my catholic sensibilities (and I do mean catholic with a small 'c' in this case) are the very thing that have kept me from leaving the Episcopal church and finding some other place to worship. They have kept me at Grace through what proved to be a rough transition to it's new Rector. They have kept me tithing even when I didn't feel like it. And they keep me reading the psalms every night, day in and day out (with some exceptions) for 7 years now.

My evangelical friends often wonder why I don't just leave my church (or denomination, for that matter...) and my response is that if we all just left our churches or denominations every time something came up that we didn't agree with, there'd be 30,000 different churches. Oh wait, there are.

Which isn't to say that if God dropped a thunderbolt and ordered me to mosey on my way, I wouldn't.... When I was a Unitarian who had come to Christ, God did just that, on the second anniversary of my baptism. I was sitting on a beach in Duxbury MA, at a leadership retreat for the lay leaders of my church, and Jesus basically gave me a right hook across the head. That is when I left the Unitarian church.

But he hasn't done that with me at Grace. So some weeks I sit in the pew clinging to the fact that I am there to worship, because it is the one thing I can hang on to.

Then I go home and read psalms of exile.

Shakespeare it's not...

...But I have been reading over some of my earliest blog posts this morning, and it is amazing to revisit the early part of my walk with Christ. I don't think it is a coincidence that I started this blog in 2005, right about the time I left the Unitarian Universalist Church and began seeking a Christian community. This coincided with the 2nd anniversary of my baptism.

I visited a few Episcopal Churches, many of which have since closed. I visited a very soulful Roman Catholic church that moved me so much I cried through every service. It, too, has closed. I railed at God about throwing me in the desert to wander from place to place with no sense of home. Advent of that year was one of the darkest times I can remember.

But through it all I believe that God was working.

And looking over the old posts, I am moved by how evident it is that the Holy Spirit had my by the hand.

Praise to you, Lord Christ.

Living it

For several years now there has been a bible study at Grace on Sunday mornings called "Live it". I can't remember if I have ever sat in on it before, but today I got up early and joined the conversation.

The whole thing takes place out in the narthex. (Foyer). And because we are who we are, the group is made up of a mash up of folks. Today we had a retired priest, a few folks from Crossroads, the facilitators and me.

I like the format. They use the readings from the Revised Common Lectionary. We read the collect, the Gospel lesson, some of the letter from Paul to Timothy and more from my friend Jeremiah. After each reading we talked about them.

God breathed

And gave us scripture

And today I was so happy to be reading it with friends, new and old.

Back to Africa

In January I am heading back to Mali for a couple of weeks. I have already started packing.

I am not excited. No. Not at all.

This time, I am bringing my eldest son with me. About a month ago I asked him if he wanted to go and at first he said no. But after thinking about it and talking to a friend, he decided that he did want to go. I am beside myself.

There will be an interesting group of us traveling together. 2 teens, a 20 something year old drummer from a rock band, a middle aged mom (me) and possible a 60 something drumming student from my church. Pack us all up in my Honda Fit and we'll make the trip to NYC to take a plane to Mali via Casa Blanca. The entire journey will take at least 24 hours. But traveling, as with everything, breaks down into a series of steps. First the drive to NY. Then the flight to Morocco. A long layover. A flight to Mali. And then we are there and the world expands before our very eyes.

Lord, I praise you for the beauty of your creation.

Might be time to read Jeremiah

I have been keenly aware of the pressure I am under, especially at work. It is a tough job, heading up a charity that depends 100% on donations to survive. Not only am I about supporting my staff and keeping the organization on an even keel, but I am also a figure head that represents the organization out in the world. And there are times when that feels like a very heavy load to carry. Because, lets be honest, I am just as much of a goof ball as the next guy. It is crazy that the way people feel about me would have anything to do with whether they support the ministry... but I know it does.

About Babylon:

I will admit, there are times when I feel like I am in exile. We have a new priest at my church and the transition has been way harder than I expected. Right at the moment when I need stability, the rug has been pulled out from under me. The bible study I have been attending for 4 years just got canceled. Lectio Divina isn't happening on Sundays anymore. I have no relationship with the new guy, so I really can't imagine talking to him about any of this.

Lord, I know you have a plan for all of this. I will pray for strength and courage and perseverance.

I'm thriving, thanks.

My local hometown bird cage liner (The Providence Journal) has recently started a themed section called Thrive that appears on Monday mornings. This section of the paper is entirely devoted to New Age spirituality in all it's various forms. There are articles on Feng Shui, yoga poses and 'finding your inner strength'. Today's version had story after story about how women are leaving churches in droves to seek God within themselves. They described a bookstore where you can find crystals that will help you channel your inner healing energy to treat your cancer, or buy a smudge stick of sage to get rid of negative energy in your house.

I've been there, done that, believe me. I was the high priestess of the church of what's happening now, following every rabbit hole for a sense of peace and serenity. I did smudge sticks, runes, tarot cards, astrology, new agey music and chakra healing. I tried to manifest my destiny with positive visualization and crystal meditations. For the majority of my adult life, I was a seeker. What I didn't realize until after I was a 'finder' was that the very thing I was seeking was a deeper relationship with God.

And you know what? That seeking led me to get baptized in a pond in Chepachet. And in that pond I found out that a deeper relationship with God requires only one thing- Jesus. No crystals, no trances, no mystical music, no burning weeds or pseudo native spirituality. No purchases in New Age bookstores. None of it could bring me to a place of peace. Always, always, my soul was restless within me.

In fact, I think that a great deal of spiritual damage has been done by the New Age stuff. There is a perpetual sense that if only you were more spiritual, you would handle life better. If only you could visualize more powerfully, your cancer would go into remission. If only you search more effectively within you, your relationships would be great, your friends kind and generous and your dog would stop pooping on the rug. When you become God, you end up responsible for everything in your universe.

I ran into a friend who is fully in the grip of the New Age stuff. I asked how she was doing and it was clear that she was really having a hard time. Life has been a challenge lately, and she believes that she is somehow responsible for all of it. She believes that if she were just more focused, things would magically resolve. It is a heavy burden, I tell you. One that I carried for years. (Why oh why can't I just manifest the thin, rich, happy woman I think I should be?)

When I saw my friend, I wanted to just shower her with the REAL love. The love that has only one source. The love that is not dependent on us in any way. The love that flows freely whether we deserve it or not. I wanted to shake her and say 'Put down your copy of The Secret and try this instead' and hand her the New Testament. It's all there, my sweet friend. All the secrets we need to know are right there.

For me, no more searching. My spirit is no longer disquiet within me. I am armed with scripture, an abiding trust in Christ and a religious community in which I can grow as a Christian.

And finally, my dear friends, I am thriving.

My heart is not proud, O Lord,

my eyes are not haughty;

I do not concern myself with great matters

or things too wonderful for me.

But I have stilled and quieted my soul;

like a weaned child with its mother,

like a weaned child is my soul within me.

O Israel, put your hope in the Lord

both now and forevermore.

Psalm 131 NIV

A secret love

I have been playing djembe for over 4 years now, but I have to admit, I have always wanted to play the dun duns. Dun duns are the big bass drums in the West African drum ensemble. They are the booming, melodic backbone upon which the other drums weave their magic spells. It is a heavy responsibility to carry the whole rhythmic structure of a piece. If the dun duns mess up, the djembes, the dancers, the whole thing comes to a screeching halt.

Dun duns are big wooden cylinders covered on both ends with thick cowhide. You play them with sticks made out of a very light and fibrous wood that is remarkably strong for being so light. They are about an inch in diameter and have a hammer head embedded in one end.

My teacher has lent me his set of dun duns and I am learning a few songs. I have been practicing like crazy over the last couple of days and having a ball doing it. I have put the set of big drums in the corner of my dining room and every time I walk by I pull up a chair and play for awhile.

Hey, do me a favor. Don't tell my djembes, ok?

On why we need clean carpets at CareNet

Have you ever seen images of Pope John Paul II at prayer in his chapel?

He would lie face down on the floor, white robes notwithstanding.

We at CareNet have found ourselves in that position a few times recently. Lying face down, or kneeling with our heads pressed to the floor. Sometimes prayers of petition. Often prayers of thanks.

Yesterday, we were praying that our financial dry spell would come to an end so that we can get on with the business of saving lives (mothers, fathers, babies) without being distracted by money worries. By late in the afternoon, a donor came forward promising to pay for our fundraising banquet next month.

If, a few minutes later, you had peaked in the window of CareNet, you would have found several women on their knees, thanking God (and the donor) for his provision.

And it is not just money. We pray for our clients too. And each other. And our donors and supporting churches. Our volunteers.

In Mali you can recognize the devout because they have dents on their foreheads from praying 5 times a day.

I am working on mine.

On success, and other random ideas

I found out that one of my oldest childhood friends just won the genius grant from the MacArthur Foundation. I am really happy for him. This is a kid who knew what he wanted to be from the time I can remember. In 8th grade he was practicing his calligraphy during math class.

When you hear news like this, inevitably, such a thing invites you to a bit of introspection. It is pretty clear that I am never going to win a MacArthur grant. (Even if they DID give them out for things like being a mom, running a little non-profit or going to Africa because nothing but God himself brings you the kind of joy that a street party in Mali does....)

Mine is not a life of superlatives. I have grown content with mediocrity.

At one point I learned that many years before, when I was heading to high school, I was offered a shot at a private boarding school. I never knew this at the time. My parents, through a series of strange decisions, chose to send me, instead, to public school... and later to an alternative high school. I remember when I first discovered this missed opportunity, I imagined what life would have been like had I gone to the private school. Different friends. Different college. Different path altogether. I am quite sure that the opportunities would have been different, too. Maybe I would have had a bigger sense of the success drive if I was surrounded by over achievers. Maybe I would have gone on to do something that the world sees as significant.

As it is, I went to an ok high school, a public college and a series of lower level management positions in the corporate world until bagging it all to have kids.

Not the stuff of fellowships.

But eventually, the stuff of happiness. Somehow my path lead me to find Jesus, in whom I find joy. I love my husband and my kids. I cherish my friends more than can say. I now have a job that takes me to the front lines of my faith on a daily basis. And I have come face to face with the reality that I am never likely to do anything of much significance except love God with all my heart and soul and mind, and love my neighbor as myself.

And play my drum at soccer games.

And dance until I throw up.

And hug my kids and kiss my man and thank God that even though I am a half assed goofball, He loves me anyway.

St. Andrews by the Sea

Today I had the pleasure of speaking at St. Andrews by the Sea to help them kick off their Episcopal Charities Fund campaign. I was invited by my former Rector, Bob Brooks, to talk about CareNet Pregnancy Center of RI.

And I will admit, I was more nervous about it than I have been for any other speaking engagement. It was my first time speaking at an Episcopal Church. Since the Episcopal Church tends to be socially liberal, members are just as likely to be pro-choice as pro-life. I understood that I really needed to try and find common ground, while at the same time challenging people, gently, to at least reconsider their position on the issue.

The scripture readings were a true gift from God, as they made an excellent jumping off point.

First, we heard about Abraham's negotiations with God to save Sodom and Gomorrah for the sake of a few righteous men. Then, in the gospel reading, Jesus teaches us how to pray the Lord's prayer... and goes on to encourage us to be persistent in our prayer. But he also says that we should have faith that when we pray, God will give us all that we ask for. He asks if we, who are evil, are smart enough to give our children a fish instead of a snake, or an egg instead of scorpion, how much more likely is it that God, who is Holy, will give us only good things?

Which made me realize that when we pray and don't get what we think we wanted, Jesus is assuring us that what we get is, indeed, an egg, not a scorpion. We, sadly, just don't see it sometimes.

As we read the Luke version of the Lord's prayer, it struck me that Jesus might be telling us that the Kingdom is already come. We just can't see it. As Christians, we have to have more faith that the kingdom is all around us though... especially since Jesus expressly tells us so in the gospels. And it strikes me that Christians who are pro-choice may need to strengthen their faith muscles. Why do they think that the world's solution, (death) is really the only option when a woman faces an unplanned pregnancy? And do they really think that God would give these women snakes when they asked for fishes?

After being involved with CareNet for several years now, I can tell you, without a doubt, that there comes a point when these young women finally see their babies for what they are. Not scorpions. Not snakes. But the greatest gifts they will ever receive.

Maybe we should just pack it in. Sell what we can. Give away the rest. Walk away.

The SBA told us today that it won't even give us a minimal loan to cover the repair of our machinery unless we sign our house on as collateral. And you know what? After 20 years of been there, done that, I am just not willing to do it again. We finally got out from under the SBA last year when we sold the building, and after 9 years of being unable to refinance because of them, I am simply not willing to do it again.

I am so tired. Why did they tell us we wouldn't be required to do this? It would have saved me so much time and heartache if I had known this in the beginning. They told me we would not have to sign away our home. Why did they tell us that? Why?

Thank God for our friends. That is all I can say.

In which our heroine testifies in front of the RI House Committee on Health, Education and Welfare

I was invited by Barth Bracey, the executive director of RI Right to Life, to attend the RI House hearing on the Woman's Right to Know act last Wednesday. (H7377)

In a stunning show of spinelessness, the committee, before hearing any testimony at all, voted to send the bill back for further study. That means that it is left to languish in committee for year number 16.

The bill basically requires that women who are seeking abortions be given information on the nature of the procedure, the risks involved and the development of the fetus. Then she has to wait 24 hours before the actual abortion can take place.

In a state that requires a 5 day waiting period to buy a firearm, doesn't a 1 day wait for something like this seem reasonable? 30 other states have already passed laws like this. Our senate has already passed it. Our house has sat on it for 15 years.

The representatives from Planned Parenthood said that they already give women enough information for informed consent and tried to say that the 24 hour waiting period would be too much of a hardship, especially for their poorer patients.

I decided to go check out what Planned Parenthood tells women about the abortion procedure. On PPs national website, if you read the descriptions of the aspiration abortion it states:

# A tube is inserted through the cervix into the uterus.
# Either a hand-held suction device or a suction machine gently empties your uterus.
# Sometimes, an instrument called a curette is used to remove any remaining tissue that lines the uterus. It may also be used to check that the uterus is empty. When a curette is used, people often call the abortion a D&C — dilation and curettage.

For the dilation and evacuation abortion it says:

# In later second-trimester procedures, you may also need a shot through your abdomen to make sure there is fetal demise before the procedure begins.
# Your health care provider will inject a numbing medication into or near your cervix.
# Medical instruments and a suction machine gently empty your uterus.

The italics are mine.

Gently empties your uterus. The bill before the house would require that a woman seeking an abortion be told about fetal development. Most of us have been told for decades that before 12 weeks of pregnancy you are dealing with a cluster of cells. That is simply not the case. You are, in fact, dealing with an individual life that is fully distinct from his or her mother. He has his own circulation system, his own blood supply, hands, feet, brain, spinal cord, the works. At our center, even women who are only 7 weeks past their last menstrual period can see an actual human being when they get an ultrasound.

Fetal demise. That means they inject a shot into the uterus to make sure the fetus is dead.

Planned Parenthood claims that they give women enough information to make a fully informed decision about the procedure they are about to undergo.

If their website descriptions are any indication, what they offer is a sanitized version of reality that is specifically designed to deceive women. They cannot be trusted to provide accurate information.

We need this bill to pass. Please write to your state rep and demand it.

A first stab at a post-diluvian wrap up

Today marks the end of the 4th week after the flood.

Status: The shop is still not fully functioning. Most of the machines are running, but at least two are still needing repair.

We have mostly given up on the idea of a Government loan. Apparently we can reapply, but frankly are too busy with getting on with things to jump through all the SBA hoops (again) so it will have to wait until things are actually back up and running.

Personally we are doing fine. Our friends and family have been supporting us in all kinds of ways, from sending checks to cooking meals to arranging for groceries to be delivered. We are set for at least the next couple of months, which is a HUGE relief.

I am, for the most part, on the other side of the chaotic emotional roller coaster and seem to have found a sense of serenity about it all. I met with my spiritual director this morning and described what the last month has been like.

It was like I was two people experiencing everything simultaneously. One side of me was resting in God's love, aware that things were unfolding according to his plan, feeling safe in the knowledge of his love of us. There was a bedrock of peace on which I was relying and it never left.

The other side, however, went through a lot of emotional distress, grief, anger, sadness, you name it. I never knew, from day to day, what frustrations were going to emerge. I was in a maelstrom that just kept swirling around me.

Both of those things were going on at once. Looking back, I realized that the existence of one truth did not negate the existence of the other. I was experiencing them both, and could not necessarily reconcile them.

And maybe it is not our job to reconcile such things. Maybe that is God's role. I am just grateful that for today, the despair has dissipated and the resting in God's hands part remains.

A tiny breakthrough

Finally, finally, I got to speak to a real live human being at the Department of Labor and Training. And she was very kind and concerned and took care of our problem with the unemployment benefits within about 32 seconds. Boom. Done. We were able to check on the status of Nguyen's employees too.

Yesterday I was really in the pits about all of this, so this phone conversation was a huge gift. My spirits lifted immediately. Thank you, God.

Today, the weight of that is gone and I am feeling much lighter about all of it.

Nguyen was in the shop until very late last night. He is working so hard. His employees are too. All they want is to get back to business. I pray, today, that they will soon.

And then there is the part of me that thinks that because I am not handling this well, I am a bad Christian. Because I feel fear, anger, loss, grief, I am not trusting in God.

Forgive me, Lord, if that is so.

I need healing.

3 weeks down

and the recovery is excruciatingly slow. Just yesterday Nguyen and Don were able to get a repair technician in from Maine to look at the CNCs. He diagnosed the problems and made his recommendations. They are having motors rebuilt and circuit boards replaced. All reasonable expenses after a catastrophe like the floods 3 weeks ago. None of which will be covered by the fabled FEMA grants or elusive SBA loans. The good news is that the machines can be repaired. The bad news is that we are going to have to max out our credit, beg, borrow and steal to pay for it.

I feel such a sense of loss and I am not sure what it is, even. Grief.

My poor husband can't sleep without a tv on, so he has been on the sofa in the living room because we don't have one in our room. He had a nightmare that his building was on fire and being vandalized and no one would come to help. No fire trucks, no police. When he told me about it the next morning, I cried because it was actually true.

Every day there are articles in the paper urging businesses to apply for the SBA loans, but they never say that you are likely to get rejected. They never disclose that over 50% of the applicants have been denied. They never say anything about the fact that just getting the app in in the wake of a flood is, in itself, a herculean effort. Today I finally called a reporter from the Projo to tell him to ask the SBA how many of their loans are being denied and why aren't they printing THAT statistic every day?

The shop has been closed for 3 weeks as of today. My husband and his brothers and employees have been in there working, for no pay, every day. I go to my job and leave my problems at the door when I get there. I can't think about it. I can't talk about it. And then I come home and pick up where I left off, trying to get through to unemployment, trying to remember the name of the person who called us the first day and told us she would help, trying to get a new inventory together for the SBA so we can make another run at a loan. Trying to remember that God is in control.

It's a process

I will admit, I have been feeling a sense of anger and frustration about the lack of government support for the flood victims. At every turn we seem to hit a brick wall. Yesterday, it all finally came to a head. I had been trying for days to get the unemployment situation straightened out. I was unable to reach a human being and could not figure out what to do with the conflicting information they had mailed me. It all culminated with a call to Senator Reed's office begging them to help me navigate it all. I also got to speak with the head of the RI SBA, who sounded just as angry as I was.

Last night my father and step mother commented that I had seemed angry for a week. Of course their comment made me angry, LOL. But then I had to admit that it was true.

I think that anger is part of a process. Kind of like Elizabeth Kuebler Ross's stages of dealing with death. And there has been a death of sorts. Maybe we should have known better after watching New Orleans, but I suppose it came as a shock to recognize that despite all the good words and concern from the FEMA people and the SBA people and the RI Dept. of Labor and Training people... at the end, there was going to be nothing. I had to process through the shock and disappointment of that.

But now I am done.

And there are lots of things for which I am very very grateful. Friends and family who have been amazing. Dinner miraculously appearing on our table for days on end. Total strangers showing up to clean the shop for hours and hours. Easter lillies and prayers.

And this trial, which I pray will bring me closer to the trials of my savior. I offer it to you, Jesus.

Nothing

That is exactly what the government is offering us to rebuild our business after the flood. Zero. We were rejected for the SBA loan because our business lost money for the last two years.

Well, duh.

RI is in the midst of the worst recession EVER. The fact that we are still open is a miracle.

I am trying to figure out it if it is someone's best interest for a little business like ours to fail. Is someone in Washington going to benefit from RI's economy collapsing? They are sure acting that way.

In the mean time, Nguyen and I are Gideon. We can be stripped down to absolutely nothing, but if it is God's will for us to succeed, we will... to his glory.

Easter breakfast with Obama

I will admit that as a pro-life Christian, it was a little hard for me to read Obama's Easter breakfast confession of faith and take it seriously. It truly puzzles me how a Christian can also be the most pro-abortion president we have ever had. He said all the right things... but for me, it sounded a little too well rehearsed. He could have been talking about an economic policy, really.

But then, in the middle of my cynicism, I got a poke from the Holy Spirit.

First, who am I to decide who is and isn't a Christian? Did God offer me the right hand seat? Nope. I am just another goofball trying to do my best. My planks, and Obama's may not be of the same wood, but we have in common the fact that there are, in fact, logs in our eyes. Perhaps I should try not to be too quick to point out the splinter in yours.

And second... it occurred to me that for the average secular liberal, hearing that Obama is a man of faith might just open a door for them that had been shut tight in the past. I pray that is so. I pray that through him, God will draw people to himself.

Yes

If you offer to bring me dinner, I am going to say yes.

If you offer me some help cleaning the shop, yes.

If you ask me what you can do to help, I am going to tell you.

This is new for us.

Nguyen and I are used to being the ones who do the helping. We are the ones who cook dinners, rake leaves, shovel snow for the elderly neighbor.

We are the ones to send money to an orphaned child in Mali, or a family member in Vietnam.

I don't say this to toot our own horn. It is just the truth.

But in this crisis, we are learning that if we pray to God for help, he may send it through our friends. And we better be willing to say yes, right?

Jesus was gracious when people gave him gifts. He didn't say 'Oh, I don't deserve that nard... there are people much more deserving, who need it more.'

He just said yes.

So, yes.

Now I know

why it has taken YEARS for New Orleans to get back on her feet.

Because there is nothing.

No federal funding.

No help for businesses.

Nothing.

A homeowner can get a grant up to $30,000 to fix their kitchen, bathroom, bedroom. A homeowner can get a low interest loan at 2.9%.

But a business, the ones who rebuild the houses, the economy, the jobs, the health coverage,

are offered not one single dime to rebuild. Not one dime to put their employees back to work. Not one red cent to start taking orders, or clean the sludge out of their shop, or rebuild their equipment.

Even the paltry $30,000 that a homeowner gets would go a long way towards getting us back on our feet. For that we could buy replacement motors for our machines. We could lease a new space and pay for riggers to move our equipment. We could rent a power washer to clean the crud off our floor.

But congress has allocated exactly nothing except the offer of debt. We can get a 4 or 6% loan that will weigh us down for the next 30 years. We will be in our 70s by then.

Now I know why it has taken YEARS for Louisiana to rebuild. Because her businesses were left high and dry.

After the flood

I really couldn't believe what I was seeing as I walked through my husband's shop yesterday, a day after the water from the Pawtuxet River receded. The water mark on his CNC milling machine was at 38 inches.

Outside, a HAZMAT team was trying to determine if chemicals from a neighbors chemical processing operation had leaked. We had to wait to find out if the whole site was going to be shut down and condemned. It seems that is not the case, though, as the HAZMAT team finally left.

It was dark in the shop, of course. The lights are still off. Everywhere, dark silty mud that smelled of diesel and motor oil and just a hint of sewage waste.

Because the road to get to the shop is still underwater, the only access is through a neighbor's back yard. A sweet elderly woman who has a gate that opens onto the steep embankment across from the building has graciously allowed us to duck through her yard. Yesterday a photographer from the Providence Journal made her way down the embankment with a camera slung over her shoulder to take pictures of the damage.

Strangely, Nguyen and I are not gripped in fear. We are just patiently waiting to see how things unfold. I think that is probably a result of the many people who are holding us in prayer right now. The first calls I made when I finally realized that our business was destroyed were not to FEMA. They were to my spiritual director and my parish priest.

And it is Holy Week, a time when maybe it is right that we get stripped down to our barest essentials. We come face to face with the limits of our faith. Where does it end? Where does the dark pit of unbelief start? Last year, at a friends diagnosis with a pancreatic tumor, I got there very quickly. I wrestled with God for a week until finally, my friend's tumor was diagnosed as benign. And maybe that was God telling me he'd won the match. And I called 'Uncle' and felt the edge of my faith grow more distant. I have longer to go before I careen into the dark.

This year, too, has pushed it back yet farther. Working in a crisis pregnancy center means that my faith is tested every day. Being in the center of a spiritual battle, day after day, requires a rigorous faith. I can't wimp out. I can't fall into despair. And the only way of avoiding it is to offer myself to God everyday. Seek his will. Run to him for protection.

The edge of my faith grows more distant... at least for now. For today. Because really, what is that edge except the point where you let fear take over? That is the blackness on the other side.

For today, in the ruins of our livelihood, in the muck and oil and shit that fills our shop, in the post diluvian black mire,

It is Easter.

don't you think

that it is possible to be gracious and loving even when you disagree with someone? And if that someone is a non-believer, isn't it even more important to love them first, and foremost?

We disagree on some things, it is true. There may even be anger there sometimes. But when I look into your face really carefully, I see that you are a child of God, and I know that Christ loves you. And really, my friend, that is good enough for me.

So, Christians, yes you must speak the truth, but never ever forget that you must do it in love. Because love, at the end of the day, is the most critical piece.

Lent begins

I am giving up some things. I decided to stop drinking alcohol for the duration. And sweets. I am going to read the New Testament. Maybe do a scripture reading at dinner with the family. And we, as a family, are giving up frivolous spending. By the end of Lent I will have a few extra bucks to donate to charity.

Mostly, Lent is a time of recognizing our failings and offering them to God, who seems to receive them with such grace and love, as though they were the most precious gifts we could give him. I lay them at your feet, my sweet Jesus.

You know,

Lord, I have been lifting up some pretty big prayers lately. I have been praying for the people I love. And I have to send up a great big thank you for all the prayers you are answering.

So, today, I pray for my friend who is at a turning point and needs some clarity and conviction that he is on the right path.

And I am praying for my mom, who is struggling with her health insurer over a medication that literally saves her life. I am praying that the issue will be resolved and that she can feel less anxiety and fear, and rage, about it.

And I am praying prayers of thanksgiving for the healings, the miracles I have witnessed lately.

I praise you, Lord. And thank you.

Lent

Every year, I confess on this blog that I love Lent. And frankly, I would be hard pressed to express why, exactly. Perhaps it is the intentionality of it. It intrigues me to choose a fast, a sacrifice, and offer it to God. And lest I think that I am going to someday become some sort of perfect Christian, I always seem to fail at least once or twice during the season. One year I gave up chocolate. Another diet soda. One year Nguyen and I carried the TV to the basement for the duration. The kids were allowed to watch if they were at a friend's house, but in our house we gave it up. I managed to get through the whole season without watching tv until Maundy Thursday, when, between the service at church and the overnight vigil, I stopped in a Chinese restaurant for dinner and sat myself squarely in front of the TV and stayed glued to it for the entire meal. I had, in other words, consciously broken my fast. I had, in some small symbolic way, fallen asleep in Gethsemane. Good thing I had a confession planned for the next day.

I have been spending a lot of time with Evangelical Protestants lately. Most of the women I work with, the board at my organization and most of our donors are Evangelicals. They don't, as a rule, observe the seasons of the church year the way that Episcopalians and Catholics do. I am sure they must find the emphasis on self mortification rather strange, if not downright pharisee-ish. But for me, it has yet to become an empty ritual. For me, it is an invitation to step into the desert with Jesus and lay my heart bare in the glaring sun. My faults and sins will rise to the surface, as they always seem to do. My ego will struggle with surrender. My desire to be perfect will be pitted against the human reality of my imperfection. Spiritual pride will, if I am lucky, be given some time off.

And many many times a day I will cry out to Jesus for help.

I love Lent.

Speaking the language

So, after the burst of reflection on my trip to Mali, I had an epiphany of sorts. It occurred to me that I need to learn Bambara if I want to understand anything about the culture of the Bamana. So, on Friday, I started with Bambara lessons with my friend and drum teacher. And you know what? I am totally excited about it. All day yesterday I was listening to the recording he made for me. I wrote up some flash cards and practiced for a long time, over and over again, trying to get the accent right, the sounds, the rhythm. Like drumming, sort of.

God speaks to us in the language we understand. Shouldn't we try and do the same?

I will be so happy to be able to speak the language of Mali and not just the colonial French.

I should have known better

I somehow thought that being friends with a Malian would help me understand the culture of Mali. Or that because I loved the music and could hum along with Habib Koite or Salif Keita, I would feel at home in West Africa.

I should have known better. My own experience told me that this was not the case.

In Vietnam, standing on the bridge in Nha Trang, not only did I not know Vietnam better for having been married to a Vietnamese for 20 years, it was, in fact, the opposite.

On that bridge, I realized that even after 20 years of marriage, 2 children, countless rolls in the hay and late night conversations, there was a part of my husband that I would never be able to fully understand. And until I was standing there looking at the South China Sea, I didn't even know that part of him existed.

So why did I think that a friendship with a Malian would be a cultural passport to another world? Why did I think that playing a drum, or soaking a goatskin or eating sauce and rice would give me an inside scoop on this other world?

I should have known better. Really.

4 am

We arrived before dawn, after 24 hours of traveling. Shuffling past security, I handed over a scrap of paper with Sidy's father's business address as my contact information. I was waved on by a man in a military shirt and a beret.

A long line to retrieve our luggage. Then, finally, out the door, greeted by young men offering cab rides, cell phone calls, God only knows what else.

Sidy and Ali were in the crowd. No hugs. A brief introduction to Ali. A black Toyota that was big enough to hold our copious lugguge. Lisa and I piled in the back seat.

It turned out to be a remarkably short drive to our house. We pulled up to a big metal gate. Lights were blazing. Sidy shouted for the hired man to open the door. We hauled our things into the courtyard... and then into the house. Sidy showed us our rooms. They were simple, lovely. Mine was in the front of the house. It had a foam mattress on the floor. A sheet. A mosquito net. I also had a bathroom with running cold water. (There was some debate over who got the bathrooms. Sidy, of course, had one. I lucked out and got the other. There was a third, outside, that Rusty used most of the time.

The main room of the house was lit by overhead florescent lights. There was a coffee table, 4 heavy metal lawn chairs with the year 2002 woven into their backs. A little dish rack on the floor with plates, spoons, knives, forks and glasses and cups. A freezer.

We sat in the lawn chairs and Sidy brought out some food. I can't actually remember what it was. We talked about our journey. About Morocco and about Rusty missing the plane because he hadn't gotten his visa in time. I think I might have pulled out the bottle of scotch I had gotten in the Duty Free shop in Casablanca.

And then, finally, we said goodnight and crawled into our mosquito nets and slept until late the next morning.

Travel warnings

The brochures at the travel clinic are clear. Don't eat raw vegetables. Don't drink the tap water. Don't go out without your sunscreen and bug lotion. Don't go out at night. Don't go to nightclubs. Don't rely on ATM machines: there is only one and it doesn't work.

The truth? I did avoid the tap water. I did wear my sunscreen and bug spray.

But I also went to nightclubs and danced until 4am and took cabs home through deserted parts of the city. I ate salads made with fresh lettuce, tomatoes, potatoes and carrots, doused in the best tasting dressing I have ever had.

I followed the ATM machines around the city, laughing every time we found a new one. Evidently the warnings were outdated.

I walked along the street and was greeted by every person I passed. Good morning. How are you? I am fine, and you? All smiles.

Fresh fruit. Melons and bananas and avocados. Bread bought from a guy at the nearby gas station. Baguette folded neatly in half and placed in a dusty black plastic bag. It was the breakfast of champions, with a big mug of coffee.

Mosquito netting, tucked carefully around the edges of the mattress. And retucked. And tucked in yet again as I got up in the night to pee.

The sorry little gecko, found dead under my suitcase. A casualty of the high powered insect spray that Sidy bombed my room with at night.

No one warned me, though, about the broken heart. The sadness I would feel when I left. The sense of loss as I got on the plane home. And the crushing grief when one of my friends died, unexpectedly, a couple months after I got back to the states. No one warned me that I would never be the same again.

I thought I knew

what generosity was.

I thought I had seen it before.

But it wasn't until I was leaving Mali and was given gifts, big and small, from the cook, my friend's mother, my friends,

That I finally understood.

We brought things

that my friends would have wanted.

Things like malaria tablets and high powered insect repellent and cipro for diarrhea.

She can't see you today. She is sick with malaria.

I felt overwhelmed by the fact that I, there for only two weeks, had enough malaria medication to get me safely through my time in Africa, but my Malian friends had no such thing.

I can't get a years worth of malaria tablets for even a single person, never mind the whole extended community of family and friends.

So next time I go back, it will be the same. I will take my medicine each morning

and rely on God to keep my friends healthy.

Call to prayer

Clean. Nose, mouth, ears, hands, feet. The plastic tessolet filled with water sat under the tree in the courtyard and several times a day my religious friends would perform their ablutions before unfurling their plastic prayer mats and laying them on the concrete paving stones to pray.

Then, stand, hands clasped, kneel, forehead to the ground, stand, kneel, hands together, words whispered silently to God.

I told one friend

'I think God smiles when you do that'.

The last time I saw Maze, was on the rooftop courtyard where he and Sidy's friends were recording Sidy's songs. After the recording was finished, Maze took a moment, as darkness descended, to walk off by himself on the other side of the roof. Overhead, the fruit bats were beginning to emerge from the giant mango trees and quietly make their way across the twilit sky. Maze's yellow shirt billowed a bit in the breeze as he turned his back to us, turned towards Mecca, turned his attention, towards God.

Later, saying goodbye for what turned out to be the last time, I remember seeing the yellow of his shirt as I leaned in for a final, formal, kiss on the cheek.

I don't know anything

I noticed that foreigners in Africa liked to assert what they knew as if it were fact. This is how the Africans feel about thus and so, an aid worker would say. This is what they think of this or that, or the other, over there.

We were driving along the streets at night and I noticed, over and over, brightly lit orange signs that simply said 'Orange'.

What is 'orange'? I wondered. Orange Juice? Orange Soda? Orange cigarettes? Candy? Gum? Condoms?

The signs were everywhere.

Finally, I asked Sidy. What is 'Orange'?

It is a cell phone company, he said.

Mali was like that. Most of the time I had no idea what I was looking at.

The connection was lost

I tried to type on the dusty keyboard. The internet cafe was about 4 blocks from our house and I had been meaning to take the short walk so I could reconnect with home, send an email or two, post a brief comment on this blog. But though I managed to negotiate the price and get online, I realized as soon as I started typing that the keyboard was laid out in the French way, with the Q and W and T all in different places.

So even that. Even typing, which comes so naturally to me now, even that was foreign. Required careful, slow, hunt and peck to circumvent the wiring in my brain that said that a 'T' should go there and a 'Q' belonged over here.

I had paid for 30 minutes. I assumed that would be more than enough time, even with the ancient computer on old fashioned dial up. But by the end of the 30 minutes, I had barely managed to type a paragraph or two.

As I was walking back to the house I realized I had nothing to say anyway.

Scenes from Bamako

I was riding in a cab. Sidy, Lisa and Rusty were in the back. I was in the front. The window was open and we were speeding down the main road, passing vendors with vegetables on their heads, kids selling phone cards at stop lights, guys with rusty blue carts upended on the curb waiting for someone to hire them. Green buses zig zagging in and out of traffic. Then the river, spread out clean and beautiful and serene below the bridge. Walled compounds. Beautiful people. Red dust and diesel fumes hanging in the air.

And I thought to myself, I don't understand what I am seeing. I am seeing it, but I can't interpret it. I can't imagine how I would possibly describe what it was like to be there.

Perhaps it is an American thing, to always want to explain things. To analyze them. To make sense or meaning from what you observe or experience.

But I knew at that moment, in the cab, that there was no explaining. All I could do was see.

Heavy

A friend commented today that although she knows I love my job, she also can tell that it weighs heavily on me. She can tell that I am juggling a LOT of balls and am sometimes overwhelmed by it all. And it is true, I do feel the weight of it, even as I try very hard to share the load with Christ Jesus. It is not all mine, Lord. It is not all mine.

And I am even juggling too many balls at church. Today, for example, I facilitated Lectio Divina, lit the Advent candles during the service, read the 2nd lesson, did healing prayer in the Messiah Chapel during communion and had 3 conversations about stewardship during coffee hour. Yesterday I clipped greenery in the pouring rain for two hours so we could use the greens to decorate the church. On Friday afternoon, I rushed Noah through rush hour traffic to get him to Grace for a field trip. And tonight have to go back to Grace again to pick him up from the youth group.

It was a weekend that saw very little in the way of rest and renewal... and that is an issue since I am expending so much energy at my work during the week. I really (really) need some down time. That is absolutely clear to me.

I need to take my dog for a walk. Alone.

Listen Handel's Messiah.

Light some smelly nice candles.

Schedule absolutely NOTHING on my day off.

Make a giant pot of soup to eat all week so I don't have to cook every day.

Read scripture. (Suggestions welcome)

Investigate a silent retreat of some sort. Maybe it is time to visit St. Margret's in Boston.

Pray to Jesus that he give me the strength and courage and perseverance to carry on.

On a happy note: Last year a friend came up to healing prayer one Sunday because he was scheduled for carpel tunnel surgery on his wrists. We prayed over him, laid hands on him and sent him on his way. When he went to the surgeon for the pre-op exam, the surgeon was surprised to discover that he no longer needed it.

Praise God. Thank you, Lord, for the miracle of prayer.

Amen and amen.

God inside

I have been lucky enough to meet people who radiate God's love. You can feel it when you are near them.

When I meet people like that I want to pull up a chair and sit for awhile,

Basking in the flow of God love energy.

Thoughts on the Trinitiy

Some snippets from an ongoing email conversation with a friend:

I am a trinitarian through and through. Frankly, I never really understood Unitarian theology very clearly. It is something about God choosing a guy named Jesus and elevating him to semi-deity status.

To me, that is just not scriptural. John clearly states that the Word was God, was with God, was made flesh and dwelt among us. And that the Word existed before the beginning of time. Also, I don't think there is a place in Unitarian theology for the Holy Spirit. Being something of a charismatic, that just doesn't work for me.

I really don't understand the theology well. And I realize that Jesus himself did not refer to himself on equal par with the Father. But the trinity has been a joyful discovery for me. When I finally became a Christian and began to realize that God himself walked among us, it
changed things for me. I just love the incarnation thing, I guess. I love the spirit thing and the creator thing, too, come to think of it.

To model oneself on the life of Jesus is a fine thing to do, but isn't actually possible to achieve without a supernatural sanctification process going on too. To me, wanting to be a good person isn't enough to overcome our natural tendency to be assholes. I am not sure whether we are born with original sin... or are just subject to inevitable sin, but either way, it seems like there is something in our natures that draws us into separation from God. And while we can do things to try and mitigate that, I think that without God's help, we are incapable of true 'goodness'.

Whether one believes in a supernatural sanctification process is almost beside the point. A life lived in Christ is a life lived in Christ. It is the result of Christ's action in the world even if you don't necessarily recognize it as such.

I believe that where goodness exists, it is necessarily an action of Christ, whether it is recognized or not.

How about you, dear readers.... any thoughts on the trinity? Post them in the comments!

The Jesus prayer

Lord Jesus Christ, son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.
Lord Jesus Christ, son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.
Lord Jesus Christ, son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.
Lord Jesus Christ, son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.
Lord Jesus Christ, son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.
Lord Jesus Christ, son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.
Lord Jesus Christ, son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.
Lord Jesus Christ, son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.
Lord Jesus Christ, son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.
Lord Jesus Christ, son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.
Lord Jesus Christ, son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.
Lord Jesus Christ, son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner....


I breathe this prayer in and out when I am agitated or depressed and the wave of Peace washes over me. Thank you, Jesus, for this breath prayer, for this body prayer, for this heart prayer.

Paper bag

I feel, sometimes, like I am trying to carry too many groceries in a bag that is a little tattered. There are holes. The top is frayed. Stuff pokes out.

And not pretty stuff, either. Not the baguettes and a bottle of wine. Not fruit and cheese.

Nope. What slips out of my ratty old bag is a half eaten bologna sandwich and a banana peel.

(What in God's name is she going on about, you ask.)

I am carrying too much sometimes. Too much at work. Too much in my family. Too much in my church, even. Just too much stuff. And most of it is high quality, good stuff. But what comes tumbling out of my bag when the seams begin to pull apart is the darkness. The isolation. The frustration, the exhaustion.

At least, that is what pours out when you ask me to put the bag down, empty the contents on the table and begin to try and sort through it all.

This morning, I almost couldn't fit it all back inside.